Trout Creek Montana
It feels right to listen to Lord Huron and think of Montana
When reality feeds itself on one’s own myopic inertia
To be there again, a hungering and herculean agenda
To do this one life away from her, self serving and simply
I swam to this timid paradise but it drowned me nearly
The silence here is bold, it reminds me often and clearly
When you brood upon things you misunderstand they still hatch
Nevermore in Trout Creek the cold clay through my toes I’ll pinch
The silence there was warm, like chicken soup she made from scratch
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